


And who would you turn to?

by ThatHydrokinetic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Marauders, Marauders Friendship, Marauders' Era, Werewolves, feel free to ask me if you want specifics, good and pure children, nothing explicit at all though, technically? kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 13:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatHydrokinetic/pseuds/ThatHydrokinetic
Summary: Remus never expected to make friends at Hogwarts. He definitely didn't expect a group of boys so fiercely loving and loud and brave he thinks that, maybe, he can be okay.A story about how Remus tells the others he is a werewolf.





	And who would you turn to?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to preface this by saying that I have a personal headcanon that Lily figured out that Remus was a werewolf back in first year, because she doesn't have any previous prejudice regarding it and she's a bit quicker on the uptake than the others.
> 
> This story is set across the Marauders' third year.
> 
> The title is taken from Ben Howard's "Gracious". I hope you enjoy the story!

Remus could not remember the last time he was alone.

Used to be, the school years felt like this: rainy afternoons and lukewarm tea, his mother teaching him the lessons he could not go to classes for, calendars marked and counting every twenty-eight day cycle. His father, hair graying too young and ever-conscious about the amount of money in his wallet. His mother, worry lines around her eyes and hands that shake the night before every full moon.

Now, the school years feel like this: nights up too late, sticky hands and bright eyes, laughter that never seems to go away. James, with crooked glasses and crooked hair and a smile that was always a little brighter when he has an idea. Sirius, who never wore his full uniform and who called them all ‘brother’ despite having his own. Peter, with a quiet voice but the best eyes out of them all, who was always the one who discovered the secret passageways littering the halls.

The three of them, who never left his side.

Even the full moon could not separate him from others. Professor McGonagall, who walks him up to the tree every month. Madame Pomfrey, whom he always wakes up to as she carries him back. Lily, there in the mornings with breakfast and school notes and stories.

It makes things harder, but it somehow makes them easier, too.

He’s terrified that Lily knows, now, but she holds to her promise not to tell a soul and not to hate him. Instead, she always makes sure to take notes for him in classes and cover for him when kids ask. He knows it frustrates the Marauders, that she seems to know where Remus is while they don’t, but they respect him enough to have stopped prodding long ago.

(He can’t believe they chose a name for themselves. He can’t believe that name is ‘Marauders’. He can’t believe he kind of likes it.)

James, Sirius, and Peter have accepted the lie he told them last year (“My mum is sick, and it’s a miracle she’s lived this long; they’d arranged that I get to visit her once a month,” he says, and they all nod. Peter’s eyes don’t leave the fresh cut that emerges just above his collar, and Remus shifts uncomfortably). They meet him when he appears in the Gryffindor common room without question, often with a new plan that is just crazy enough to distract him from all that he remembers from the night before. 

“Did you get the notes?” Peter will sometimes ask.

“Of course he did. Evans met him first thing, I’m sure.” James will occasionally sound a bit bitter, but he’s never one to hold onto an emotion for very long.

“Did you eat this morning?” James will ask instead, poking him in the stomach, a habit born of his mother. Sirius will sometimes wrinkle his nose at the familiarity, a habit born of his.

Sometimes Sirius will just look at him, wait until James and Peter have made a game of reaching the Great Hall, and ask, “You're okay, yeah?”

Remus will nod, and that will be enough. 

 

“Is someone—is someone hurting you?” Peter asks him one night when they’re alone, when James and Sirius have disappeared to wreak havoc that he’s sure he’ll hear about in the morning. Every time Remus moves, he feels the open cuts, tender against the fabric of his school uniform.

“No,” he answers. It isn’t a lie. Peter nods, and goes back to doodling on the edge of his homework assignment.

A few minutes later, Remus thinks to ask, “Peter—is someone hurting you?”

“No,” Peter says, and it isn’t a lie, either, but there is enough hesitation that Remus wonders if Peter had to think about his answer.

Remus, though, with the same grace he was afforded, allows it to drop.

 

“Remus, how are your parents?” James will ask him, on a Saturday as breakfast lies sprawled out before them, what is leftover from that morning's rush. 

“Well, my mum’s still sick-”

“That's not what I mean,” he says, and from anyone else, it would have sounded crass. “I mean, are they nice?”

Remus does not meet his eyes, because he sees the real question here. Beneath James Potter just making conversation is a James Potter that is beginning to put together the too-scattered pieces of Remus’ life, and he can't even be angry with them for getting it wrong. 

“They're alright. Parents, I guess.”

“Well, my parents are great. I love my mum. But Sirius’—”

“Yeah,” Sirius agrees, leaning backwards in his seat. “My parents are pretty shit.”

Remus knows what they are asking, even if he doesn't know how to answer it. He knows that abuse might be one of the easiest ways to explain the scars that litter his back and arms; he knows that there was a chance his parents would even encourage the lie, since it protected him; but try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to let his friends believe such an ugly lie about his parents. 

“I mean, my mum is sick now. But before, she would spend days and days making up stories to tell me when I got home from school. And my dad—”

“You went to school?” James asks then, and Remus is inexplicably surprised that he was paying attention. Then he is surprised that that was the detail James found interesting. “Like, Muggle school?”

Remus feels profoundly uncomfortable. “Yeah. I did for a bit. My mum is a Muggle, and she thought it would be a good idea.”

He doesn't tell them that the reason his mum won that argument is because his parents weren't sure it was possible for him to live and work in the wizarding world as a werewolf. He doesn't tell them that he had to stop attending when he was seven, when the schools were tired of him missing classes once, twice a month; when the reason he was having trouble focusing in class wasn't his brain chemistry or his disrespect but instead an urge to run, to tear, to eat; when he sometimes couldn't help but scream as his body began to twist beneath his skin in the days before in preparation. 

“Sounds boring,” Sirius decides. 

“I went too, for a few years,” Peter says. “It is.”

“My dad wanted to send me for a while, but mum didn't like any of the ones in the area,” James says. “I thought it sounded interesting, but not interesting enough to actually do.” 

“It sounds boring,” Sirius says again, more emphatic this time, and stands up from the table. “C’mon James, let's play some Quidditch. That new broom Regulus got isn't going to break itself.”

 

At the beginning of each year, McGonagall tells every new teacher about Remus’ condition.

He hates that she has to. _She_ hates that she has to, he could tell. But she agrees that every one of his professors has the right to know, and that this is the best way to handle the situation. 

For most of his professors, nothing happens. They treat him with the same basic respect as every other student, if maybe a little more lenient with when he turns in his assignments around the full moon. He’d had the feeling, maybe from the way her eyes always traced him around the room, that his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher perhaps had another opinion. He trusted McGonagall to keep her in line; it made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t think anything would come of it.

Until.

 _Werewolves and how to recognize them,_ is writing itself on the chalkboard with a floating bit of white chalk, and the professor is dusting off her hands as she prepares for the lecture. 

“Get out a sheet of parchment for notes,” she tells them as they come in, and Remus’ hands shake as he mindlessly takes out sheets for himself and the others. 

Peter is watching him, but it is Sirius that asks, “Hey, mate, are you okay?”

 _Werewolves, even in human form, display a permanent loss of moral sense._ Chalk dust scatters on the floor.

There’s a slam in the back of the room, and Remus jerks; behind him, he sees that Lily has just walked in, has just noticed the board. She does not dare meet his gaze.

“I’m alright,” Remus says, a reflex that now saves him. “I—just a headache.”

“Have you had any water today?” James asks, and Remus sighs. _I’ll be okay,_ he thinks, and tries to remember how to breathe.

A sharp rapping comes from the front of the room as the professor calls them all to attention. Remus cannot help that he jumps. 

Once she has all of their attention, she begins.

“Infected persons may feel pale and weary as the full moon approaches, as their bodies prepare for the transformation.”

Remus wonders if the others are thinking about how ill he's been all week. He wonders if they notice how his sleep schedule waxes and wanes with the moon. He wonders if they are beginning to picture the subtle shifts in his temper that always seem to pop up when he returns, supposedly, from visiting his mother.

Remus hears the quills around him as they all scratch against the parchment, but he cannot bring himself to write. He hears the professor go on, retching facts he already knows, facts he has written on his skin, but he cannot focus on her words. The noise filters empty through his panicked mind.

A small paper crane floats across the room and lands on his desk, wings flapping sadly as it begins unfolding itself.

 _Are you okay?_ is written in a practical, if looping, script. He can feel Lily’s eyes boring into him from here.

Beneath she has said _If you need to leave, I’ll cover for you_.

“A werewolf cannot help but attack people. They have a thirst for nothing else. This is a trait that is often carried over even when they are not transformed.”

Remus pushes back his chair. 

“Lupin, mate, where are you—”

“Bathroom,” he says, and does not look anyone in the eye as he leaves.

 

“Lupin? Remus, where did you go?”

They find him in the library. He has buried himself deep in the shelves, at the crossroads of _Enchantment in Baking_ and _Xylomancy for Beginners_. His hands play with a bit of clay Peter had found by the Great Lake a few weeks before; his mind plays with _werewolves, even in human form, display a permanent loss of moral sense._

“I grabbed your things. You left them when you went to the—bathroom,” James says, a bit haltingly, a bit unsure. He is often unsure when it comes to things that were important.

“Thanks,” Remus responds, trying to sound as sincere as he can with his mind so distracted.

“Are you okay?” James asks, and since Remus cannot lie right now, he opts out of responding entirely.

“Lily said we would find you here,” Sirius says. His voice says that he is not likely to let this go.

“I had a stomachache.” 

“I thought it was a headache,” Sirius responds. He does not like being lied to; Remus does not know how to explain that it is not a lie.

“If you’re sick, you should go to Madam Pomfrey’s,” Peter says.

“I think I’ll just go to bed,” Remus responds, and stands. His knees buckle as he does; James, the only one close enough, lunges forward to catch him.

_A werewolf cannot help but attack people. They have a thirst for nothing else._

“Listen, Lupin, you definitely should go visit Pomfrey,” James says. Remus sees over his shoulder that Peter has already disappeared behind the stacks and shelves; his stomach bottoms out.

“I’m fine, I swear—” He isn’t sick, not anyway physical. Besides, he sees enough of the Medical Wing when he’s forced there once a month; he doesn’t fancy having to go there on his own time. “You know, James, you might be right about the water thing. Could you go get me some?”

It’s rude and direct and completely unlike him, which is maybe what startles James enough that he sets Remus and Remus’ things on the ground. As he turns to exit their section of the library, he walks right into Lily, Peter trailing behind her.

She beelines right to where Remus is, shuffling his bag onto her shoulder and tugging him up before James or Sirius can really process her sudden appearance.

“Evans—” James begins, trying to recover, but Lily shoots him a look that could silence a mandrake.

“C’mon Remus,” she says, and he follows her out of the library, trying not to think about the wreck he left behind him.

She slams the two of them in an empty classroom. Remus dully recognizes that most classes must have broken for lunch.

“I cannot believe her!” Lily explodes, and Remus can tell that she has been holding this in ever since the beginning of class. “I can’t believe that McGonagall told her, either. Who thought that was a good idea?”

“Dumbledore asked her to. The teachers deserve to know what they’re teaching.”

Lily cuts him with a glance. “ _Who. Who_ they’re teaching.”

Lily is kind, too kind, but Remus is too exhausted to agree with her.

“Not in her eyes,” Remus responds, and Lily looks about ready to light fire to a particular professor’s classroom.

“That was just—rude! And uncalled for! Does she realize that she could have exposed you to our entire class? Don’t answer that,” she says, maybe knowing him too well. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, because she has been through far too much on his account.

“Don’t be,” she says, breezily, her mood flipping on a dime. She looks far too excited about what she has to say. “It gave me some practice.”

 

The next Dark Arts class they have is taught over pixies. If anyone notices that their notes from the previous period have vanished, they don’t mention it. If anyone notices that their textbook section on werewolves is conspicuously impossible to read, no one says a word. If anyone notices that their professor hasn’t access to a single piece of chalk, her chalkboard absent from the classroom entirely, none think to ask.

 

In the end, Lily is the reason he tells them.

She never asks him to. She never even suggests it. He knows that she’s read every book in the library, has skimmed through every article on the subject the school offers; but, more than that, she has listened to his stories.

Lily knows that a werewolf is a terrible thing to be, and that having others know you are a werewolf is the only way to make it worse. She’s never said a word.

But he can feel James’ anger and confusion at how she always seems to know something he doesn’t; he can feel Sirius, bitter and frustrated and never one to give second chances; he can feel Peter’s piercing gaze every morning after a full moon on the scars he struggles so hard to hide. 

They all know he is hiding, and at least one of them knows he is lying.

And Lily gives him courage enough to think, _maybe it will be okay._

He practices on himself in the mirror, on mornings when James has Quidditch and the others are still asleep or rare days when they’ve gone to breakfast to allow him rest. He practices in the library, under his breath, pretending to read whatever book he’s placed in front of himself. 

“I’m a werewolf,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

He lets Lily know, watches her purse her lips. She thinks for a second, then calms. “I think that’s a good idea.”

He smiles.

“Except for Potter. He’s a prat.”

She squeezes his hand, and he’s thankful.

 

“Are you okay?” Peter asks him that night, when the four of them have finally made it to their bedroom, books and clothes scattered around the floor in a light coating. The question is one that Remus has been asked an uncountable number of times since that day in Defense Against the Dark Arts; an uncountable number of times since the three of them have taken him under their wings.

Sirius has taken to ignoring him; he still has not forgiven Remus for the lie he clings to, unwilling to let it pass in ignorance now that it has been dragged into the open. He sits now in his bed, spellbooks piled around him, a lightly sketched map spread across his sheets.

James also lies silently on his bed, but he begins to sit up when he realizes how long Remus has paused before answering Peter.

Remus takes a breath. “I have something to tell you.”

He meets each of their eyes, and watches them still; even James’ hands have paused from where he was fiddling with his wand.

“I’m a werewolf.”

Remus does not see their reactions, on account of having shut his eyes to avoid them. He does hear a _thunk_ as someone falls from their bed, as well as overlapping shouts of surprise and incredulity.

“Oh,” Peter says from next to him, just louder than the other boys’ commotion. “Okay. That makes sense.”

“ _Okay?_ ” Remus asks, opening his eyes.

“You’re not joking, are you?” James asks, and Remus wishes he could disappear.

“I understand if you hate me,” Remus says, and it sounds like a whisper against the roaring in his ears. _Lily was wrong, she was an anomaly, he shouldn’t have told them, he shouldn’t have said anything—_

“Of course we don’t hate you,” scoffed Sirius, help from the most unexpected corner. 

Remus knew what kind of family Sirius grew up in, knew what kind of people his parents were, every glance at Sirius showing him the prejudice and privilege their kids were drenched in. He’s seen three years’ slow work as the group of them learned against it, but it will never be easy. Even James’ response is more appropriate; he’d expect something worse, something even more scathing, from Sirius, and he now hates that he’d allowed himself to expect it.

He waits for them to explode. Sirius and James have never been this quiet, this still. He expects them to explode into motion, into sound, into something other than this tense silence they’re currently courting.

“I’m sorry,” Peter finally says.

“Evans knows?” James asks.

“She figured it out, back in first year,” Remus tells him. “It only took her a few months.”

James pauses. “Yeah. Bloody hell, I guess it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Please don't tell anyone,” Remus whispers, hope forcing his volume low. 

“We won't, Remus. We won't,” Sirius tells him. Then he smiles, broad and ghastly and feral, and Remus falls a little in love with all of them. “We solemnly swear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I write fanfiction like every three years but I'm always excited about it  
> hmu on my tumblr @shelbychild if you feel like screaming about these boys with me
> 
> Let me know what you think! I kudos or a brief comment would make my day <3


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